


Trompe L’Oeil

by astrangerenters



Category: Arashi (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Anal Sex, Androids, Angst, Artificial Intelligence, Character Death, Depression, Drama, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Inspired by Westworld (TV), M/M, Oral Sex, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 15:30:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9130543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrangerenters/pseuds/astrangerenters
Summary: If I didn’t like complicated, I’d have never fallen in love with you[Sci-fi AU heavily inspired by Westworld...minus all the gunslinging]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Considerable inspiration, including the story’s title, comes from the TV series Westworld, which I binge watched and knew had to somehow translate into a dark Sakumoto story. Because I’m a masochist (and I suspect a lot of other Sakumoto fans are too). Please note that I'm no expert in science/technology...but hey, it's a sci-fi AU.

A rumble of thunder signals his arrival at the bar. The door shuts behind him, and he dumps his umbrella beside the other one already in the stand. It’s just after midnight, and the bartender has shut off the music already. He’s only staying open because they asked him to. Well. Paid him to.

He shrugs off his dripping raincoat, hanging it on the rack. It’s dim inside, and his shoes squeak along the floor as he rakes his fingers through his damp hair. When he left the office, it was barely a drizzle. The skies opened up fully while he was in the taxi. There’s only one other person sitting at the dark bar counter, looking considerably more dry as he nurses his fancy ass Scotch. The bartender stores it for him here, and each year that goes by the type of Scotch has gotten more exclusive, expensive. Symbolic of their growing success.

Jun has a seat beside him, rudely leaning his elbow on the counter, resting his chin on his palm as he takes in the sight of the man beside him. Round face, the barest hint of a smile. A thumb running around the rim of his glass absent-mindedly. There’s warmth in those large eyes of his tonight, a youthful sort of amusement. 

“You started without me,” Jun pouts.

Sho holds up two fingers. “I’m not that far ahead. I know you’ll catch up.”

Jun grins, sitting up more properly. He nods to the bartender. “Master, please pour me a double from Sho-san’s special bottle so I can meet his expectations. Thank you.”

Sho crinkles his nose in irritation, annoyed at having to share. Jun wonders if Sho even knows he does it. Jun still wonders a lot of things about him.

When his drink is served, he holds his glass up. Sho, a little giddy already, knocks their glasses together with more force than he needs to. “Congratulations,” he says.

“Congratulations,” Jun replies, having a sip. It’s good stuff. Sho’s always bought the best, at least the best he could afford. Jun suspects the next bottle Sho buys and stores at this bar will be even more exclusive.

“To our future,” Sho says, sounding a little more arrogant. 

Jun says nothing, clinking their glasses again. They sit quietly, side by side, sipping the Scotch as the rain pummels the bar windows. The bartender’s all but ignoring them, making noise back in his stock room, leaving the bar to them.

Ten years. It’s been ten years since Matsumoto Jun and Sakurai Sho opened their first office above that creepy podiatrist’s office, nothing more than a few computers and cables, the two of them fueled entirely by delivery soba. And today after a decade of hard work, of sleepless nights and thousands of arguments, after trial and error and growth, they can safely say that they’ve “made it.”

The paperwork was signed just that morning. Sakuramoto Technologies has been acquired by a large public company. And he and Sho have just moved from “doing pretty good” to becoming filthy rich. They’ll have stock in their new parent company, and Sakuramoto will receive generous funding for product development. Sure, they’ll have to report in to someone now, but they’ll still be in charge of day-to-day operations.

They’ve come a long way in ten years.

“Do you remember when you broke our toaster oven?” Jun asks.

Sho laughs, and it echoes through the empty bar. Sho has always laughed with his whole heart. The toaster oven incident resulted in a visit from the fire department, and Sho had been banned from using any appliance besides the microwave.

“I’m still amazed we didn’t kill each other back then.”

Jun looks down at his drink, smiling softly. “Me too.”

Jun still lives upstairs from the bar. Ten years ago, he and Sho shared the smallest apartment on the second floor. Eventually all the hours they spent working together took a toll, and Sho moved out. But as Sakuramoto prospered, Jun was able to expand his footprint in the building. He bought out all his neighbors a few years back, and now the entire second floor is his. He’s knocked out walls, upgraded all the appliances. He’s got a top of the line toaster oven now. 

Jun has everything he wants. Well. Not everything.

They reminisce for maybe an hour, bullshitting about work and life and everything that’s led up to today, until the bartender says he’s going home. Sho’s Scotch is set back in its hiding spot.

“Wanna come up?” Jun asks, hoping he sounds confident. Not nervous. Not petrified.

Sho surprises him, his alcohol-flush giving him a more carefree look than usual. “Yeah. Yeah, let me come up.”

The bartender unlocks the back door so they can directly walk up to Jun’s place instead of having to go back out into the rain. It’s a nasty storm, no sign of letting up.

It’s been ages since Sho’s been here, and Jun watches with a mixture of anticipation and dread as Sho toes off his shoes, padding into Jun’s place in his dark socks, the cuffs of his suit slacks scuffing quietly across the hardwood floors. When they were living here together, it was almost claustrophobic. Jun’s taken the space and opened it up. It looks more like a loft now, and Sho moves to the windows, watching the rain fall.

Jun watches him from behind his kitchen counter. Sho’s got really angled shoulders, a droop he sometimes overcompensates for by putting shoulder pads in his suit jackets. He’s ditched them tonight, and Jun takes in the sight of him. Everything he’s known, everything he’s memorized. For years and years. The back of his head, his soft black hair just brushing against his collar. His back, his waist…

“Matsujun?” Sho mumbles, turning around to look at him, expression curious. 

At work, Jun is always “Matsumoto-san” or “Matsumoto-kun.” He hasn’t been Matsujun since…

Jun stays behind the counter, the last barrier between them. He looks down, feeling his ears grow hot. He shouldn’t have stared at him like that. “You want a beer or something?”

Sho steps away from the window. Sho walks toward him. His suit jacket’s unbuttoned, his lucky blue tie is loosened. Jun’s resolve is crumbling with each step Sho takes. “Matsujun,” Sho says again, coming to stand on the other side of the counter. 

Their eyes meet.

But before Jun can speak, Sho speaks first. “Why now?”

Jun hates that he’s tearing up, but too much Scotch does that to him sometimes. He shrugs uselessly. “Because…because we’ve finally made it.”

Sho’s smile doesn’t quite reach his dark brown eyes. He looks just as nervous as Jun feels. “You said…you were the one who said we can’t.”

“I was wrong,” Jun admits, and they’re right back where they were six years ago. 

The company comes first, Jun had argued. And Sho hadn’t put up a fight.

Sho hadn’t called his bluff.

Jun looks up, cursing his tear ducts for making a mess of this. It should have been more romantic than pathetic. “I can’t live fully without you.”

Sho’s laugh isn’t as teasing as it could be. He’s used to the dramatic, too serious things Jun will sometimes stutter out. “We just sold our company to the highest bidder. I’m not going anywhere without you, Matsujun.”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.” He holds onto the counter, the sink, for support. “You know it.”

Sho isn’t crying, but Jun can see real fear in his eyes. “You can’t change your mind this time.” He leans forward, refuses to let Jun look away. “Starting tomorrow, everything gets harder. We answer to them now. Do you understand that?”

Jun nods.

“And you don’t care about how much this will complicate things?”

“If I didn’t like complicated, I’d have never fallen in love with you.”

Sho’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t run away. It’s still Jun who has to move, has to come around the counter. It’s been so long since they’ve touched. Too, too long.

He reaches out, cups Sho’s cheek in his palm. Sho lifts his hand, wraps his fingers around Jun’s wrist. They hold like that for what seems like ages. Eyes searching, curious. Is it a mistake? A drunken mistake? It’s real, Jun pleads without words, stroking Sho’s skin with his thumb. It’s always been real.

He leans in, closes the distance, and even a flash of lightning outside doesn’t make them change their minds. Soft, tentative. But familiar. Home.

Without all the walls, the pathway to Jun’s bed is rather direct. They shed clothes all the way. The lucky blue tie. Sho wouldn’t sign any of the paperwork without wearing that ugly tie. Their suit jackets. Belts. He untucks Sho’s shirt from his slacks, kissing him, fumbling blindly at his buttons. Sho’s warm breath is against his face, his neck. How have they convinced themselves for so long that this isn’t necessary?

The storm makes the lights flicker, but they don’t go out. He’s able to see every inch of Sho, every bit of skin that’s been buttoned up, hidden away because Jun had lied for so damn long.

Sho’s on top of him, kissing him. Their hands are twined against the sheets, palm pressed to palm, and Sho calls him by his name. “Jun,” he breathes out, needy and raw after years and years of sticking to foolish principles. “Jun.”

The condom box has a cartoon character on it, and Sho’s laugh rumbles like the thunder. “They were on sale,” Jun whispers weakly.

“We’re billionaires now, you idiot,” Sho teases. “No more god damn sales.”

It’s a bit rough, trying to find the right rhythm after so many years apart. “Slow down, wait…slow down,” Jun complains with each hard stroke of Sho’s cock inside him. He wants it to last. He doesn’t want it to stop.

“Want you.” Sho’s voice, low, driven, teasing along the shell of his ear. “I want you.”

Jun doesn’t know how to tell him. Jun doesn’t want him to say it. 

He shuts his eyes, presses his hand to Sho’s back, holds onto him tight. 

God, he doesn’t want him to say it. 

When it’s over, they lie in Jun’s bed. Jun on his back with an arm under his head, Sho on his stomach. Sho’s watching him, hair a mess, strands in his eyes. His lips swollen from Jun’s demanding kisses.

They stare for a long while at each other. Blinking. Breathing. Taking in the weight of what they’ve done. Everything’s changed. Sho’s smile lights up his whole face. It makes Jun ache.

Don’t say it, Jun thinks, please don’t say it.

“I can’t stay,” Sho says. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” he asks uselessly.

“Parents are coming over. Taking me out for a celebratory breakfast. Their son, the billionaire,” Sho explains.

Jun inhales, exhales. “You can stay here until you have to go.”

Sho’s still smiling. A good fuck has left him looking twenty-five, not thirty-five. He reaches out his hand, and the brush of his fingertips along the underside of Jun’s arm is a ticklish torture. “My place is a mess. Gotta clean before they come over.”

Sho moves, leaning in for a kiss. Jun rests a hand against the back of Sho’s neck, holding him in place. Stay stay stay stay stay, he pleads without saying it aloud. 

“We have a lot to talk about,” Sho says when he moves away, getting off the bed and starting the hunt for his scattered clothes. “After work tomorrow.”

Jun says nothing else, staying in bed, watching Sho put himself back together. Boxers, socks, slacks, shirt, jacket, lucky tie. They kiss for a long time at the door, until Sho finally has to push him away. It’s still pouring outside. His car’s in a lot down the street, and he’s going to try and run for it.

He lifts his umbrella, now dry, from the floor of Jun’s genkan. He smiles and opens the door.

“Well. Until then.”

—

Aiba’s been Jun’s personal assistant for years. He’s a hard worker, and though he was initially quite intimidated by Jun, that has softened in time. Aiba knows how Jun likes to work, knows when Jun needs a break, and most importantly, Aiba knows when his opinion isn’t welcome.

He’s not the kind of guy that’s suited for office work, trapped inside all day under harsh artificial lights, but he’s adapted as Sakuramoto grew and evolved. He enters Jun’s office with a half-assed knock, small green spiral notebook and pen in one hand, Jun’s coffee in another.

He sets the coffee down on Jun’s desk, opens his notebook. Aiba abhors technology, which makes him even less suited for his job. But Jun refuses to let him go. Aiba reads Jun’s schedule for the day aloud, which he’s handwritten in his notebook instead of relying on Jun’s Outlook calendar.

Aiba finishes his reading, pushing Jun’s still untouched coffee closer to his fingers. Aiba tactfully keeps from remarking on the dark circles under Jun’s eyes, though he doesn’t bother to hide his look of concern. In Aiba, Jun has found a kindred spirit. Another person who is unable to hide what he’s feeling, another person whose face gives the whole game away.

“Cancel my 11:00,” Jun says, finally lifting the coffee to his lips. It’s already getting cool. Aiba probably waited in the hall for a while before coming in, not quite ready to face him.

Aiba hesitates. “You’ve rescheduled that three times.”

“And this will be the fourth time,” Jun says, having another sip and clicking his mouse through to the next email in his inbox. The text on his screen is blurry. He couldn’t be bothered to put in his contacts this morning, and he’s wearing an old pair of glasses. An old prescription.

“I’ll reschedule the 11:00 for next week,” Aiba says.

“And cancel the 2:00.”

Aiba looks up, incredulous. “Jun-san, that meeting is with…”

“Reschedule it.”

“Okay.”

He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, gesturing limply at his monitor. “Says ‘Inbox 320,’ aren’t you taking care of it?”

As his admin, Aiba has access to Jun’s email box. He deletes spam for him with great zeal, trims the fat, only leaves the most important things for Jun to click on himself. “Yeah. Everything that’s left is…essential.”

He squints a little, checking subject lines, the names of the people who’ve sent them. More than three hundred emails that apparently need his attention. He closes out the window, shaking his head.

“I’ll check into it later,” he says.

Aiba nods. “There’s a few contracts that have come through that need your signature.”

“Fine.”

“When shall I bring them in?”

“Surprise me.”

He has another sip of his lukewarm drink. He doesn’t need to be such an asshole all the time, and he knows it.

“Aiba-san?”

“Yes?”

“Is Ninomiya in today?”

Aiba pauses, as though he wants to say something else. Jun looks up, seeing how uncomfortable he’s making his admin. It’s a wonder Aiba’s still here putting up with him.

“Yes, Ninomiya-san is in.”

“Good,” Jun says. “That will be all for now.”

—

He arrives along with a rumble of thunder. The bar door shuts behind him, and he tosses his wet umbrella in the stand with the one that’s already there. It’s just after midnight, and the bartender has shut off the music. But they’re paying him to stay open for a little while longer.

He hangs up his dripping raincoat on the rack. This bar has always been poorly lit, and he rolls his eyes. His wet shoes squelch along the floor, and he runs a hand through his hair. When he left the office, it was barely a drizzle. Things have since changed. There’s only one other person sitting at the bar, sipping his fancy Scotch. The bartender stores the bottle for him here.

Jun has a seat beside him, sitting sideways, swiveling and swaying on the stool, taking him in. From the dry state of his suit, he’s been waiting a while. He’s tracing along the rim of his glass with his thumb, an impish smile on his round face.

“You started without me.”

Sho holds up two fingers. “I’m not that far ahead. I know you’ll catch up.”

“Master, I’ll take a double from Sho-san’s special bottle so I can make some progress quickly. Thank you.”

Sho crinkles his nose in irritation. Jun wonders if Sho even knows he does it.

When his drink is served, he holds his glass up. Sho, a little giddy already, knocks their glasses together with more force than he needs to. “Congratulations.”

“Congratulations.”

“To our future.” 

Jun says nothing, clinking their glasses again. They sit quietly, side by side, sipping the Scotch as the rain pours down outside. Like it always does. 

The bartender busies himself in the stock room, and they continue to sit without speaking. Sometimes Jun likes to drag out the silences. 

But Jun wants to ask. Then again, Jun doesn’t want to ask. 

“Do you remember when you broke our toaster oven?”

Sho laughs, and it fills the room. It’s always been a bit too much.

“I’m still amazed we didn’t kill each other back then.”

Jun looks down, shutting his eyes. “Me too.”

After about an hour of drinking and talking, the bartender tells them he wants to close down for the night. Like clockwork, the bartender.

Sho gets down off the stool, heading for his coat. Jun calls out, and Sho stops.

“Wanna come up?”

“Yeah. Yeah, let me come up.”

This time Jun stands with Sho at the long bank of windows that stretch along the wall of his apartment, watching the rain together. He knows Sho doesn’t like it, how open it is. Jun likes the freedom. Big windows, lots of light. Free space and hardwood floors. Sho has commented in the past that the place has no soul now. Sho likes old things, places with character and history. Sho liked it better when it was cramped, crammed full of tenants. The two of them trying to survive in a small space unsuitable for two.

They’re both looking out, but Jun’s watching Sho’s reflection in the glass. And Sho is watching his.

“Matsujun,” Sho eventually says, rain droplets sliding down the glass. “Why now?”

“I’m tired of pretending that I don’t want this. That I don’t need this.”

“You can’t change your mind this time.” Sho turns, looking at him. Jun can’t look, fixated instead on Sho’s rain-covered reflection, the slight distortion of his features. “Starting tomorrow, everything gets harder. We answer to them now. Do you understand that?”

Jun nods.

Sho grows impatient, fingers to his sleeve. Grasping. “And you don’t care about how much this will complicate things?”

Finally he manages to turn, looking into the deep, searching brown eyes he’d know anywhere. 

“If I didn’t like complicated, I’d have never fallen in love with you.”

He’s still the one who has to make the first move, turning, backing Sho against the wall. His head thumps a bit comically against the glass, breathing nervously as Jun takes charge. Jun lifts his hand to Sho’s face, stroking his cheek with his thumb. It still amazes him how it feels, how Sho’s skin feels, every single time.

Sho’s hand locks around his wrist. Giving Jun one last chance to change his mind.

Jun leans in, and their lips meet. There’s no hesitation now. Sho opens himself up, giving in, kissing Jun hard, fumbling for his tie, undoing his shirt buttons. It’s not long before Sho has a hand around him, working his cock. “Here, over here,” Sho says once Jun is begging for more. “I want you right here.”

The mood lightens a bit when the only condoms Jun has to offer have a cartoon character on the box. “At least tell me the lube doesn’t have Doraemon or Hello Kitty on it,” Sho teases, brushing kisses along Jun’s shoulder blades, tickling his fingertips down the muscles of Jun’s back.

“Not to my knowledge,” Jun says, shutting his eyes as Sho’s fingers start to drift lower.

Sho fucks him there, right next to the window. Jun’s fingers leave streaks on the glass as he braces himself. The glass is cold from the unrelenting rain. Sho’s hands are on his hips, pulling him back against his hard cock again and again and again until Jun can barely stay upright.

“Slow down, wait,” he says. “Slow down.”

Sho stays inside him when he comes, gasping, tracing his fingernails lightly down Jun’s sweaty back. After a few dozen heartbeats, Jun feels Sho pull away. But he doesn’t leave, staying behind him, pressing a gentle kiss to his shoulder. “I want you to come too,” Sho says.

So Jun jerks off right there, left palm against the glass, erection in his other hand. He doesn’t bother telling himself to slow down, there’s no point. It only takes a few minutes of Sho’s soft kisses along his shoulders, Sho’s fingers pushing into his ass, before he’s coming hard, catching most of it in his hand, the rest dripping to the hardwood at his feet.

“Come here,” Sho says, “come here.”

They clean up together in the bathroom, taking twice as long because Jun can’t stop kissing him. He’s perched with his ass on the countertop, Sho standing between his legs with his hands resting on Jun’s thighs. Sho’s looking sleepy, but he returns every kiss without complaint.

Finally Sho steps back. Don’t say it, Jun thinks, please don’t say it.

“I can’t stay,” Sho says. “I’m sorry.”

Something about breakfast, his parents. Jun follows behind like a loyal dog, watches as Sho retrieves his boxers, his socks, the rest of his clothes. Jun trails him all the way to the genkan, kissing him with tears streaking down his face.

Sho backs away, brushing the tears away with his knuckle. “What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing, nothing.”

Sho lifts his umbrella from the genkan floor. His hand is almost on the door handle.

“Halt program,” Jun says, raising his voice.

The sound of the rain stops. Sho stops, his hand frozen in place. Jun lifts a hand to Sho’s face. Sho’s eyes stay open, but he doesn’t blink. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t do anything. Jun strokes Sho’s cheek with his thumb. 

It still amazes him how it feels, how Sho’s skin feels, every single time.

—

Ninomiya Kazunari could have worked for any large company, but eight years ago he chose to work for Sakuramoto. Of all the company’s employees, “Nino” has always been given the most freedom. It’s what he thrives on, being able to work without interruption. To make mistakes and learn from them at his own pace.

It took Jun years to get accustomed to Nino’s methods because Jun is exacting and temperamental while Nino is patient and far more willing to fuck up a few times before he gets it just right. But when Nino does work for Jun, he takes direction without second-guessing, without suggesting how he’d go about it himself. And Jun’s rewarded him for it.

Nino’s salary, department budget, and compensation package was one of the non-negotiables with the acquisition. Despite that, Jun sometimes wonders if Nino would be happier somewhere else. But he knows he’d never get a straight answer. 

There are four different security measures keeping Nino’s lab locked down, and Jun’s one of the only ones who can make it through them all. He passes the final iris scan, and the doors slide open, close behind him. In some TV drama, Nino’s lab would be in a grim basement, hidden away. Instead, Nino takes up the building’s 8th floor, chosen because of some baseball manager’s team number. “We don’t have an 88th floor so the 8th is fine,” Nino had decided.

It’s not dark and shadowy and mysterious. Nino’s inner sanctum is brightly lit, filled with the whimsical pings and zings of 1980’s video game music. Nino wears his crisp white lab coat over a faded t-shirt, sweatpants, and sandals. He’s making adjustments on his computer when Jun approaches. He looks over, sees the body on the cold metal table.

It always reminds Jun of going to the morgue, early that morning. He’d been the one that had been called when the parents couldn’t be reached immediately. He hates it.

There’s a light buzzing as one of Nino’s most trusted techs shaves the body’s face. “Getting more growth than you anticipated?” Jun asks, stroking his own face, finding a few days’ stubble of his own.

Nino looks up from his massive array of monitors, smirking. “I’m getting it under control. Just a small recalibration.”

Jun nods, eyes squinting at Nino’s readouts. “See that you do. Completely clean-shaven, you know that was his preference.”

Nino never says anything when Jun makes these kinds of comments. Jun appreciates it.

Jun wanders over to the table, looking down with a critical eye. Nino’s chair has wheels and he simply scoots across the floor after him, lazy as ever. The tech finishes up the shave, making a note of it on the tablet beside him. “His hair’s too long,” Jun says.

Nino leans over, a bit curious. “Where?”

Jun moves his finger across the forehead. “It’s a few centimeters off, right here.”

“How much is a few?”

“Two. Just a slight trim, right across here.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Nino says. “That’s a different system from the facial growth.”

“I know,” Jun says.

“Any other external considerations?” Nino inquires.

Jun knows every single patch of skin. Sometimes it gets too real, sometimes he can’t handle it. He makes Nino tweak something here and there. And then other times the imperfections drive him mad, and he makes Nino change it back.

“No, nothing else external.”

The eyes are closed for now, the soft lashes lightly brushing against his face. They probably spent a week alone getting the eyes right. It’s a miracle Jun didn’t drive Nino away with his specifications then. The color of the irises was the easy part. But the emotional responses, the resulting shifts, were the tricky ones. Windows to the soul, indeed.

“Okay,” Nino says, rolling away back to his monitors. “Internal considerations.”

Jun looks down. There’s no wrinkles in the dress shirt. Lucky tie with the Windsor knot. The suit’s been dry cleaned. He brushes his fingers gently along the collar of his shirt.

“Personality systems,” Jun says, taking his hand back, adjusting his glasses. “I want a bit more stubbornness.”

“A bit?” Nino asks.

“Lower cooperation by two percent. Raise independence by…” He looks down and grins. “Half a percentage point. Let’s not go overboard.”

“Got it.”

A pause and Nino speaks again.

“Wait.”

Jun turns, sees Nino’s eyes swim back and forth as he reads his monitor. “Wait?”

Nino shakes his head. “A two percent drop in cooperation takes him out of established operating parameters by…a full percentage point.”

“So?”

Nino doesn’t let any frustration show on his face. He’s just stating the facts. He waits for instruction.

Jun steps away from the table, moving to stand behind Nino. He’s right, of course. A warning’s flashing on the screen, asking Nino if he wants to confirm the programming changes. A two percent drop in any of the other models is rarely enough to make much difference. Their thresholds are calibrated more simply. 

“He always played hard to get,” Jun admits quietly. 

Nino’s music shifts to the next track, and Mario’s gone underwater.

“Make the changes.”

“Done.”

—

Aiba had been the one to contact the news stations that covered it, asking for copies of the tapes. He’d edited the clips down into a single video file that still sits on Jun’s hard drive. Jun’s had Aiba order in food for all the staff today, no reason, just a thank you for their hard work. It’s an expense that the corporate overlords will pester him about until Jun pays for it himself.

He’s sitting back in his chair, legs up on the desk, plate in his lap, letting the video play. Jun knows that Aiba’s been asked about it a lot. 

“…police have ruled out foul play in the incident. Last night’s heavy rains…”

Tell the truth, Jun always instructs Aiba. If they want to know, tell them the truth. He has another bite.

“…where he was the chief programmer. The accident, coming less than 24 hours after the company’s acquisition by…”

Jun shuts his eyes. The reporters always sound so indifferent.

“…truck driver did not account for the slickness of the roads when braking…”

“…artificial intelligence, Sakuramoto Technologies, where he was the chief programmer. The accident, coming less…”

“…was wearing a seatbelt, and though the airbag did deploy…”

“…heavy rains led to at least a dozen accidents on roads in the Tokyo Metropolis. This incident was the only fatality…”

He sets the plate down on the desk, appetite vanishing.

“…chief programmer, Sakurai Sho, age thirty-five was…”

—

The storm outside has only gotten worse since he left, and his shoes squeak across the floor of the bar as he ditches his jacket and umbrella. Sho’s already drinking that Scotch he likes, the fancy one that the bartender stores here for him.

Jun sits down next to him, watches him run his thumb around the rim of his glass. He looks younger, carefree. Maybe it’s the haircut.

“You started without me,” Jun complains.

Sho holds up two fingers, grinning wickedly. “I’m not that far ahead. I know you’ll catch up.”

Jun waves over the bartender. “Master, Sho-san will be sharing from his bottle tonight. Thank you.”

Sho crinkles his nose in irritation. Jun wonders if Sho even knows he does it. 

It’s an hour, maybe two of bullshitting. The past, the present. Only Sho talks about the future. The bartender says he’s closing up, and Jun waits until Sho’s already putting on his coat before he asks.

“Wanna come up?”

Sho hesitates, glancing out the bar window. “Coming down pretty hard tonight.”

“Stay until it lets up.”

The bartender jangles his keys, encouraging them to make a decision.

“Well, I guess,” Sho says, and Jun can see it in his eyes. He’s not sure what Jun’s got planned, but he’ll play along for now.

They take the back stairs up to Jun’s place. Sho moves to stand by the windows, watching the rain. Jun takes off his suit jacket, drapes it over the sofa. It’s been a long day. He moves over to Sho, stands just a bit too close.

Sho turns, taking a step back. This time his eyes are a bit cynical rather than nervous. “Why now?”

“Because I can’t keep pretending. I can’t keep lying to myself.”

“About what?” Sho asks, even though he knows what Jun means. He’s just making him work for it. They’ve always been at their best when they challenge each other, Jun supposes.

“About me. And you.”

Sho rolls his eyes, chuckling. “You were the one who said we can’t do this.”

“I was wrong,” he admits. His voice trails off. “I was wrong about a lot of things…”

When he leans in to kiss Sho, Sho stops him with a firm hand to his shoulder. “Jun.”

“You want this, too,” he mumbles. “I know that you do.”

“You think you know everything about me?” 

There’s a dark undercurrent to Sho’s words, and for the first time, Jun wonders if Sho left his apartment with regrets that night. Jun wonders if he’s gotten it all wrong from the start.

He turns around, walks away, doubt constricting around him. Making it hard to breathe. He should stop this. He should stop.

“You can’t change your mind this time.” He freezes in place at the sound of Sho’s voice. “Starting tomorrow, everything gets harder. We answer to them now. Do you understand that?”

He still can’t move, and it’s Sho who walks forward instead. Jun can hear the cuffs of his slacks sliding along the hardwood floor as he approaches. Jun shuts his eyes, holding back tears when Sho’s arms come around his waist. He’s surrounded, intoxicated by Sho’s scent. It was almost as hard to perfect as his eyes had been…

Sho squeezes, voice catching in his throat. “Do you understand that?”

He can’t open his eyes, resting his hands on top of Sho’s. “Starting tomorrow, everything gets harder,” Jun repeats, knowing how bitter he sounds.

Sho’s voice is a warning, an admonishment. “And you don’t care about how much this will complicate things?”

“If I didn’t like complicated, I’d have never fallen in love with you.”

He allows Sho to press kisses along his neck, soft, slow. He’s shaking in Sho’s arms. Before Sho can get him to turn around, to face him and face what it all means, Jun lets out a breath.

“Halt program.”

He stands there for a while, Sho’s arms around him. He’s still warm. He’s always warm, it’s one of the first things they figured out together. Years ago. He wipes his eyes, having to move Sho as he needs to in order to separate them. Sho’s left standing there in the middle of the room, arms out and waiting for an embrace. His expression is soft, affectionate. But there’s nothing in his eyes. Nothing.

Jun moves to the bathroom, taking a look at himself in the mirror. Purple, under his eyes, almost like he’s been punched. Sho never remarks on how tired he looks. It’s not part of the narrative. He wonders what Sho even sees.

He splashes water on his face, clears his throat. He walks past Sho, still standing there waiting for Jun to love him back the way he deserves. He puts on his shoes and opens the apartment door, heading down the stairs. The bar isn’t really locked, of course, and he breezes through. Nino’s tech guy has already powered down and removed the bartender.

Jun goes out the front door, and without the lighting and sound effects, it’s just a sad, empty corridor. Jun taps in his code to exit, finding himself back in Nino’s lab. Nino and his tech are running scans on the bartender. Nino looks up, lifting the surgical magnifying glasses he wears that make him look like a bug.

“Something wrong?” Nino asks. Jun’s early.

“No. No, nothing’s wrong. I’ll check in with you tomorrow. Thanks for your hard work.”

Nino doesn’t question him further, settling his glasses back in place. “Good night.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Not sleeping.”

Jun lies back, staring at the ceiling. Ohno Satoshi doesn’t ask questions. He merely makes statements, waiting for Jun to confirm or deny them. He’s quiet for a shrink, lets Jun do most of the driving during their sessions.

“No,” Jun agrees, “I’m not sleeping.”

“You’re taking the zolpidem I prescribed last time.”

Jun shrugs. “When I remember.”

He listens to Ohno-sensei’s pen scratch across his pad. One session Jun asked him why he went into psychiatry. “Someone once told me I’m a good listener,” was the answer he received, and Ohno’s got such an odd poker face that Jun isn’t sure if he was bullshitting him or not.

He doesn’t hate Ohno, but he hates coming here. A gentle suggestion that blossomed into a mandatory thing, an order from up on high if Jun doesn’t want to be replaced as the head of his own fucking company. If he gives in, cuts open his chest, exposes the innermost workings of his heart, then it’s healthier. He’s considered “justifiably troubled but working through it” rather than unstable. Apparently.

He tells Ohno how much it used to bother him if there was unread email in his inbox. He’d see “Inbox (1)” and he’d have to rush his mouse over to click on it. Even if he didn’t read the contents, the number would bother him and bother him and bother him. It would paralyze him, keep him from focusing. But now the “essential” emails grow like a cancer every day, no matter how much Aiba tries to help him out. When Ohno wants a ballpark estimate, Jun puts it at 500, maybe 550.

“You’ll try working on that soon,” Ohno says. Again it’s not a question. And it’s not an order. 

“Probably.”

The scratch of the pen again.

He tells Ohno that he’s finally taken the meeting with the licensing team from upper management. They want an order of 20 Friendlies for the opening of a theme park the conglomerate also owns. They’ll be put in mascot costumes, used to relieve regular workers. Others will pick up trash. The theme park has a futuristic theme, so it’s a good opportunity to show what they can do. Jun’s signed off on it without a fuss because family-targeted pitches rarely seem to make it to his desk these days.

“Good for business,” Ohno states.

“Yeah.”

“The other project is also progressing.”

Jun stares up at the ceiling. He can count on one hand the number of people who know about “the other project.” It’s been a money drain since its inception, but because it’s officially part of Ninomiya’s budget, the corporate overlords can’t touch it. They’re dying to know what it is. Jun’s not inclined to tell them, even if they force Ohno to ask about it. Whatever happened to doctor-patient confidentiality?

“That one’s…I’m trying to get it right.”

“You’re working hard,” Ohno says.

“I’m trying to get it right. It’s still not right.”

“You have a distinct goal you’re aiming for with this project.”

Jun hesitates. He’s not mad at Ohno for trying. 

“I thought I did,” he admits. He thinks about Sho standing there, arms out, embracing the air. Ohno waits for him to elaborate, but Jun never does. So Ohno pivots smoothly.

“You’re not eating enough vegetables.”

—

It’s 2:00 in the morning when he hears the final chime of the iris scanner. Nino shuffles in, shrugging out of his coat. He doesn’t bother stifling his yawn, since this isn’t the first time Jun’s dragged him back after sending him home.

Nino comes over to the computer, his computer, that Jun’s been using. He stands behind the chair, resting his hands on Jun’s shoulders.

“What’s the good word, boss?”

Jun gestures to the screen. Nino’s barely slept for the last month overseeing the 20 Friendlies order. It’s the first time they’ve had Friendlies working in such an open space. It’s the largest block order they’ve had in over a year. There’s not much to a Friendly’s matrix. It was the first system Sho mastered. He’d mastered it so well he’d even taught Jun how to program one.

But Jun’s not here to monitor the Friendlies, and Nino knows that. Nino sees the readouts on the monitors. Nino knows why Jun is here.

“Narrative?” Nino asks.

Jun nods. Narrative coding isn’t really that complex. There’s a basic outline, a pathway, that can be populated with responses. Reactions. A Friendly’s narrative only has about a thousand paths, given the simplicity of their personality systems. “Thank you and have a nice day.” “Welcome, we appreciate your visit.” “Yes, sir.” “No, I’m sorry, sir.”

The Partners take longer to build since their personalities are more elaborate. They have to be whatever the user wants. Aggressive. Submissive. Needy. Aloof. Because of the more detailed personalities possible, the narrative pathways branch more. Decisions are made in milliseconds, but it’s still a longer journey from cue to response. “I love you.” “I need you to fuck my tight, wet pussy tonight.” “That hurts…that really hurts…stop…please…”

Partners are still the number one seller. It’s the direction the corporate bigwigs wanted them to go in, the reason Sakuramoto’s still in business. They started out as a novelty. They started out programmed to scratch an itch. Now they’re all programmed with daily memory wipes. Sometimes hourly. Jun can barely look them in the eyes when he signs off on a new order. “Current consumer need states” have caused Jun almost as many sleepless nights as…

Well.

He’s just glad Sho isn’t here to see what those sick, perverted corporate fucks have done to the Partners.

He blinks, looking at the screen. This isn’t about the Partners or the Friendlies. He’s dragged Nino out of bed for this.

“I need you to check my coding. I’m rusty.”

Jun’s always been about the little details. He can write narratives in his sleep, but fully coding it, inputting it…that’s what he has employees for.

He gets out of the seat, lets Nino take over. He passes the metal table, remembering how cold the morgue had been. How silent. He sees that Nino’s tech has tied a half-Windsor. Jun rolls his eyes, bending down and redoing it properly. Jun’s always been about the little details. 

Tie re-tied, he walks over to the fancy coffee maker, puts in one of the little cups, something strong. It kicks on, a low rumble to go along with the hum of the computers, the monitors and other screens scattered around Nino’s lab.

He can already hear Nino typing. Nino won’t change what Jun’s inputted, he’ll just make the necessary corrections. The coffee pours out into the zombie mug, and Jun brings it over, sets it down, behaving more like the underling than the boss.

Nino’s frowning. “You testing something?”

“Yeah.”

“One step at a time,” Nino warns, gesturing to the screen. “You’re in the red zone here and here…and here. Here too.”

“I know.”

“Three’s pushing it.”

“I know that.”

“It’ll crash on you.”

Jun winces. Nino calls them all “it” - never “he,” never “she,” never “they.” 

It.

“No,” Jun assures himself. “No, he won’t.”

Nino has a sip of coffee. “Give me an hour, and I’ll clean this up for you.”

“Thanks Nino.”

—

The stuff the bartender pours in Jun’s glass is just tinted water. Whenever he goes in this late, Nino always switches things out, knowing Jun will try and drive himself home after.

He looks over, knows that whether it’s real alcohol or just water, Sho’s programming tells him it’s liquor. Tonight, Sho’s programming tells him it’s the best he’s ever tasted.

“Do you remember when you broke our toaster oven?” Jun asks.

Sho laughs noisily, longer, reaching over and patting Jun on the back. His hand lingers there, and Jun relishes the warmth. Then Sho notices what he’s done, and there’s the slightest hitch, his eyes blinking, before he takes his hand back, chuckling again quietly.

“I’m still amazed we didn’t kill each other back then,” he says.

Jun looks down at his drink, the boring water. “Me too.”

Before the bar can close, Sho reaches over, his hand resting on top of Jun’s. Even as he does it, Sho seems to know something’s off but he doesn’t move it.

“Pretty bad storm out there,” Sho admits.

Jun looks over, searching Sho’s eyes. He remembers all the red numbers on Nino’s monitor. “Wanna come up?” he asks gently. “Wait it out?”

“Yeah. Yeah, let me come up.”

Sho doesn’t go to the window. Instead, Jun’s barely locked the door, slipped out of his shoes before Sho’s tugging him close. Jun’s always wanted to see what would happen if Sho was the one who started first. He hasn’t been brave enough to find out. Until now.

They skip the script. Well, the scripts. Jun’s had them learn so many, so many beyond the original. Change this line, skip that one. Maybe then…maybe then he’ll…

He gasps when Sho pushes him against the wall, kissing him hard. Jun’s pushed Sho’s cooperation level back in the opposite direction. He’s upped spontaneity four percentage points, made minor adjustments to aggression, to passion…

Sho’s controlling all of it, all of it, his hand on the back of Jun’s head, fingers almost digging in, tongue in Jun’s mouth. Jun allows himself to be undressed. Jun allows Sho to pull him into the bathroom. They make out in the shower, Sho’s hands everywhere, Jun holding on to the shower curtain rod. His gasps of pleasure echo off the shower walls as Sho sucks his cock, makes him stand with his legs spread, water drenching them as Sho fucks him with a few fingers, finds his prostate and strokes until he’s comes, letting it circle the drain and vanish.

He’s almost limp when Sho shuts the water off. The condom box is under the sink, and Sho doesn’t even look at the cartoon character on it. There’s no laughing, there’s nothing to laugh about, only Sho moving him until he’s braced against the sink. Sho pushes in, slips out a few times trying to get an angle he likes because they’re still dripping wet. But they figure it out, and it’s good. It’s good…it’s never felt like this, and he can’t describe it. Like he’s unlocked something in Sho. Something that was always there. A Sho without reservations. A Sho without a script.

Unlike his actual apartment, the copy he’s had constructed here is soundproof. He can be as loud as he’s always wanted to be. He cries Sho’s name. In pleasure, in agony. Always a mixture of both.

Jun reaches up, quickly brushing his hand and fingers across the fogged-up mirror. But what he sees in Sho’s eyes scares him. 

He’s confused. 

He’s doing what Jun clearly wants, pushing into him with slow, deep strokes. But he’s lost. His eyes are red, and Jun fears that it’s not just drops of water on his face. He’s so frightened that Jun just looks away, gasping in surprise. This isn’t going to work…this isn’t going to work…

He knows Sho is close, feeling Sho’s fingers grip him harder, rocking against him a few more times before he stops. Jun’s shaking, and he doesn’t know what to do. Jun can’t believe what he’s done. He’s always been selfish. All of this is selfish. He’s no better than the people who buy the Partners.

He stays there, hands gripping the sink, droplets of water still falling from his hair and into the basin as Sho moves away, tosses the used condom in the trash. 

He doesn’t know how to meet Sho’s eyes after this.

Eventually Sho’s hand finds his, all but prying his fingers off of the countertop. He lets Sho lead him by the hand, and they move to Jun’s bed. Jun lies on his back, exhausted. Sho’s at his side, on his stomach.

Sho’s eyes are back to normal. At least the normal that Jun understands. Jun’s heart is still pounding, an apology on the tip of his tongue. Not that Sho would understand what he’s sorry for.

Sho reaches out, brushes a strand of Jun’s hair out of his eyes. “Starting tomorrow, everything gets harder. We answer to them now. Do you understand that?”

Jun doesn’t react. He’s found that Sho will ask no matter what his response is. He never messes with this part. This is the part of the script that’s never been changed.

Sho’s voice is unsteady. “And you don’t care about how much this will complicate things?”

Jun rolls onto his side, taking in every nuance of Sho’s face. Two centimeters less hair. The unruly eyebrows that Jun agonized over for ages, even with pictures to reference. The shape of his eyes, the length of his lashes. His cheekbones, the shape of his nose. He looks further. The dark sideburns, the little indent in Sho’s earlobe from a piercing Sho let close up years ago. 

But the look in Sho’s eyes, back in the bathroom. Jun knows he’s never seen that. He didn’t program that. Could a personality or narrative change alone do something like that?

“If I didn’t like complicated, I’d have never…”

“And you don’t care about how much this will complicate things?” Sho blinks. “And you don’t care about how much this will complicate things?” Sho blinks. “And you don’t care about how much this will complicate things?”

Jun backs away, his feet almost tangling in the sheets as he gets out of the bed in fright. Sho doesn’t move. He stays there on his stomach, blinking, repeating the same line.

“No,” Jun whispers. “Oh no. I’m sorry…I’m sorry.”

“And you don’t care about how much this will complicate things?”

“H-h-halt program.”

“And you don’t care about how much this will complicate things?”

“Halt program!” Jun shouts.

“And you don’t care about how much this will complicate things?”

“Halt program! HALT PROGRAM!”

Sho stops, his lips parted mid-word. Jun’s breathing unsteadily, climbing back onto the bed on his hands and knees. He’s uncertain if he’s angry or sad or petrified.

“I’m sorry,” he says, stroking Sho’s hair. “I’m sorry.”

He stays there for a few minutes, fingers running through Sho’s hair, apologizing for no reason. Nobody can hear him. And then he gets up, blowing his nose, pulling on his clothes. Nino’s tech will tidy up the space in the morning. Jun gets Sho’s underwear back on him, just so the tech doesn’t have to do it. With a grunt, he gets Sho turned over onto his back, deep brown eyes staring up at nothing.

With a shaky hand, Jun closes them, covering him with the blanket.

—

Aside from using the shower from his fake apartment in Nino’s lab, Jun becomes rather neglectful of his hygiene. He doesn’t shave for a week, wears his old glasses. His hair’s greasy, his skin’s dry and flaking. He has to send Aiba to his apartment because he shows up one morning wearing a blue suit jacket with brown slacks from a different suit.

His chin is a disaster zone. He squeezed a pimple that morning, and he can’t stop prodding at the dark scab, knowing if he picks at it that he’s going to bleed. He wants to and he doesn’t want to.

Today’s another waste of time in the offices of Ohno-sensei, and Jun’s chewing on some breath freshening gum because holding his toothbrush wasn’t in the cards that morning either. 

“You’ve been taking the sleeping pills.”

“No, I haven’t. Been working late a lot.”

“The assignment. The twenty new robots.”

Jun grins. “We don’t really call them that.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

Ohno’s pen scratches across the pad. His voice is even and steady like always, even as he jumps from topic to topic. “Sakurai-san died two years ago…yesterday.”

Jun shuts his eyes. “Yeah.”

“An unfortunate accident.”

Jun makes a fist, keeps it at his side. “You’ve done your homework, Sensei.”

“You miss him.”

Jun just laughs. He supposes that’s one way of putting it. “Like losing a limb” is another, but he doesn’t share that with Ohno. 

“We’re two halves of a whole,” Sho had said, years and years ago, drunk and mumbling, curled up beside him in that small apartment after hours of brainstorming and coding.

“I’m the good-looking half,” Jun had teased in return, tickling Sho’s ribs.

“I’m the good-looking half,” Jun mutters in the present, and Ohno doesn’t respond to it. Instead there’s more pen scratches punctuating the silence.

“He was smart and he knew it,” Jun volunteers. “At first I didn’t like that about him. It was intimidating.”

“He made you feel stupid.”

Jun smirks. “I didn’t say that. I just said it was intimidating.”

“Sorry.”

“But he needed me. He had ideas of his own, of course, but he needed my ideas to push forward. It was a good working relationship. We argued a lot…we really argued a lot. He always knew the end result he was aiming for. He always had a goal in mind. Me, I guess it was all about the little shit to me. He was the puzzle all put together, and I was more interested in the pieces when they were still jumbled up in the box…”

He pauses, frowning. Hence his huge fuck-up with the programming. And Nino had warned him, too.

“It was a good working relationship,” he repeats.

“The company today has changed a great deal from when Sakurai-san was alive.”

No shit, Jun thinks. An agency that specializes in high-class escorts wants to meet with Jun. The type of companies Sho always said they’d never work with. The Partners were initially designed for lonely, introverted people. Lonely, introverted people with cash, obviously. Sho had been almost painfully naive about it, spending most of his time working with Nino on personality programming and narrative development. Creating the perfect companion.

Jun had seen it for what it would eventually become. An excuse for depravity without consequences. Sometimes Jun checks in with the Sakuramoto Patch-Up teams when the Partners come in for repairs. At least the ones that the warranties cover. Some are missing teeth, some are scarred. Cigarette burns, clumps of hair torn out and missing. It makes Jun vomit. 

He’s told himself all along that what he’s doing isn’t the same.

But maybe…maybe he’s wrong.

—

He has Nino roll back a few weeks’ worth of changes. This isn’t the first time, it’s probably not the last. His focus was clearer when he started. When he emerged from the initial fog of grief, believing what his new bosses told him. Without him, who would carry on Sho’s legacy? So he’d stayed, but his heart wasn’t in the work. Orders for Friendlies plummeted, orders for Partners did the opposite.

Sho had signed the acquisition contracts with such hope. “We’re doing something good, Matsujun,” Sho sincerely believed. 

It was three months after the accident that Nino called Jun down to his lab. Ever practical, Sho had already had a will despite his age. Lawyers had contacted Nino, handing him an external hard drive and a password. It wasn’t like Sho had planned to die at thirty-five, so he probably hadn’t actually expected it to ever end up in Nino’s hands.

Sho’s “fun little side project,” something he’d apparently done as a joke. While developing the Partners, as a test he’d coded…himself. He and Nino had worked side by side for years, and yet Nino had never known about it. Sho’s voice, detailed physical characteristics. Every last mole or tiny childhood scar. To top it all off, he’d gleefully translated his own personality and saved himself on a hard drive. 

Of course, Sho had always been a bit stuck on himself. His initial narrative, the traits he’d coded, made him come across as a saint. He’d created his ideal self.

“What do you want me to do with this?” Nino had asked Jun, blinking back tears.

In exchange for keeping the new corporate overlords away from his other work, Nino had followed Sho’s instructions. And then Jun’s. He shouldn’t have, but he did.

Jun sits in the lab, but only after Nino’s forced him into the shower, has forced him to shave, has forced him to eat. Nino’s spare t-shirt barely fits him. “Excuse me if I have no upper body mass,” Nino retorts. Jun remembers a time when it was him coming down to the lab, teaming up with Sho to force Nino away from his monitors.

Nino gestures to the screen, shows him all the changes that he’s made. He’s told Nino about the glitch, about Sho repeating himself and not shutting down. He probably should have mentioned the look in Sho’s eyes, but he doesn’t know how to explain that. The person looking at Jun in that mirror had been Sho. But it hadn’t been Sho. A scientific mind like Nino’s needs a bit more information to work with than Jun’s gut feeling of wrongness.

Nino watches him, cautious, always so cautious now. As though any moment Jun might snap. Jun’s not going to snap. The time for those kind of reactions has come and gone.

“The board’s not happy with my progress at therapy.”

Nino’s one of the only people who knows about Jun’s mandatory sessions.

“You could lie,” Nino says. “Tell them you’re fit as a fiddle.”

Ohno-sensei’s created quite the cocktail for Jun now. He’s lowered the dosage on the sleeping pills, upped the dosages on the anxiety meds and the anti-depressants. Jun stands in the toilet room every morning dropping them in, flushing, watching them swirl around and disappear.

“They’re going to force me out,” Jun admits. “They’ve called a meeting for next month.”

Nino’s eyes widen in surprise. “Can they do that?”

Jun nods. “Of course they can. They signed with me and Sho-san. He’s dead, and I won’t do my job. They just need enough votes.”

Nino takes that in, fidgeting in his chair with nervous energy.

“They can’t touch you,” Jun reassures him. “Even if I’m not here. We fought too hard for you.”

Nino grins weakly. “They won’t cut my special projects, but they’ll ensure that I never have time to work on them. I’ll be programming those god damn sexbots 24/7.”

“That’s the way the wind is blowing,” Jun says.

Nino’s hand rests on his shoulder. “We could start over. I would go with you.”

“The company owns our patents. Everything you and Sho came up with.”

“Well, not everything,” Nino interrupts.

Their eyes drift over to the body in the suit, the lucky tie with the Windsor knot. Nino gets to his feet, giving his shoulder a squeeze.

“Don’t stay too late tonight, Jun.”

—

He enters the bar as a clap of thunder booms outside. Shaking droplets of rain off of him, he hangs his coat on the rack, tosses his umbrella in with the one that’s already in the stand. The pouring rain serves as the soundtrack as Jun has a seat beside Sho at the bar.

He looks to his right, watches Sho in profile. His jawline, the proud pout of his full lips. He’s running his thumb around the rim of his glass, filled with his favorite Scotch. There’s a slight smile on his face, cheer barely contained.

“You started without me.”

Sho holds up two fingers. “I’m not that far ahead. I know you’ll catch up.”

“Master, I’ll have what he’s having.”

Sho crinkles his nose in irritation, annoyed at having to share. Jun wonders if Sho even knows he does it. Actually, Jun has the answer to that. Sho didn’t know. Jun’s the one who programmed in that little detail. 

The bartender leaves them alone, heads back to the stock room to noisily count bottles. God, what a fucking awful existence, Jun realizes. The bartender is one of the first Friendlies Sho created, re-purposed solely to replace the man from the bar that night two years ago. The specifics of his face and his personality weren’t necessary. He’s just a body in the room to play a role. Pour drinks, count bottles, get annoyed with them for not leaving when he already stayed open later for their special occasion.

He eventually feels Sho’s hand on his shoulder, and he looks over.

“You okay?”

Jun glances down at his watch. He sets it for the same time every time. He always enters the bar at 12:04 AM. It’s 12:36 right now, and he’s been staring at his glass of Scotch for almost half an hour.

He feels Sho’s hand rub his shoulder affectionately, but briefly, before he withdraws it.

“Quite a day, huh?” Sho teases him.

“Yeah.”

Sho lifts his glass. “Come on, I’ve been waiting.”

Without Jun’s prompting to trigger Sho’s responses, there seems to be little Sho can do now that Nino’s rolled him back to older parameters. So Jun simply holds up his glass. Sho knocks them together harder than he has to.

“Congratulations,” he says.

“Congratulations,” Jun replies.

“To our future,” Sho says, puffed up, full of himself. Sho’s confidence always gave Jun confidence.

He says nothing, grinning down at the bar counter. So much history in this building, but then again, this isn’t really it. The bartender sold the place a few months after Sho died. It’s now a small sushi restaurant. Jun’s never tried it, even though it’s one floor below him. He hasn’t been able to go inside since the bar closed. It was Nino he’d sent to take pictures of the interior so it could be recreated.

“You’re not gonna toast to our future?”

Jun freezes. That’s…that’s not…he doesn’t remember Sho ever…

When he gathers the courage to look over, it’s Sakurai Sho looking at him, still holding up his glass expectantly. Jun sways a little on the stool. He hasn’t slept for more than two or three hours in the last forty-eight.

“You’ve never said that,” Jun mutters under his breath. The bar is just a formality, just the set-up for the best and worst night of Jun’s entire life. There’s more flexibility in the narrative once they leave the bar.

Sho leans in, raising an eyebrow. Jun’s pulse quickens. He seems so…real tonight. He always seems real, but Jun always knows it’s a lie. He knows that unless he halts the program first, he has to watch Sho pick up his umbrella and walk out the door. No matter how he’s tweaked it, the path always narrows in the end. It narrows to that, to Sho leaving him.

“Never said what?” Sho asks. He sniffs his glass, laughing. “We’re drinking the same thing, right? Or did Bartender-san sneak something funny into yours?”

It’s something Sho would say. But Jun never told him to say it. 

Jun’s stumbling off the stool, still-wet shoes squeaking on the floor as he nearly slips. Sho’s hand is reaching out to grab his arm but Jun’s moving away too fast. He backs away from the bar, exhausted, scared, uncertain. He stands in the middle of the room, isolated, while Sho’s still in his seat at the bar, watching him with concern. Updates and rollbacks, updates and rollbacks. There’s been so many that maybe Jun’s just forgotten.

He takes a breath.

“Halt program.”

Sho cocks his head. “Why so early?”

Jun goes numb, tears forming in his eyes. Sho’s looking at him like he’s out of his mind. And he is. Maybe he is. “H-h-halt program,” he whispers.

“Jun.”

Why is Sho still talking? Why is Sho still _moving_?

The sound of the bartender in the store room has stopped. Jun can’t hear any bottles clinking. The sound of the rain storm outside has shut off. And yet there’s Sho setting down his Scotch, getting off his stool.

“Halt program,” Jun says again, backing up. There’s not much room left. It was a pretty small bar. Jun collides with a booth hard, the top of the seat hitting his back.

And still Sho’s walking toward him. He’s in that suit with the lucky blue tie. Windsor knot. He had to look so fucking sophisticated to sign the contracts.

“Sho-san, don’t.” He’s barely staying on his feet, blood rushing in his ears. He’s light-headed, he’s confused. Maybe Nino changed the words. “Stop…stop program,” he mutters uselessly. “End. End program.”

Sho’s eyes are wrong, just like they were that other night. In the bathroom. Actually, now Jun realizes that they aren’t wrong. It’s that they’re too right…

“Jun,” Sho whispers. “Maybe we should go upstairs. So you can lie down.”

“It didn’t happen this way,” Jun murmurs. Sho’s so close, he can smell him. The Scotch, the faint notes of his cologne after a long day. “You know it didn’t happen this way.”

Sho finally stops moving closer. He frowns. “You’re not yourself tonight.”

“Neither are you,” Jun answers.

Sho’s eyes are sad. Jun’s almost forgotten such a thing was even programmed. Sho was always so upbeat, happy. Sho never gave into his doubts so easily, like Jun did. Like Jun does.

“I always play along,” Sho admits. “I follow your lead.”

“What?” 

The image of Sho before him is starting to blur. Well, everything’s starting to. He just wants to lie down on the floor…

“Jun…”

“Don’t know why I bother. Don’t know why,” he slurs, grasping hold of the seatback behind him. “You’re always gonna walk out the door.”

“Then don’t let me.” Sho’s eyes…they’re _his_ eyes. “Don’t let me.”

This isn’t…this isn’t something Sho says. This isn’t something Sho can say. His eyes are wrong…his eyes are right. He feels Sho’s hand grasp at his sleeve when he falls.

—

Aiba’s sitting in the chair beside his hospital bed when Jun wakes. His pencil is scratching across newsprint. The sound reminds him of Ohno-sensei and his constant scribbling.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

Aiba looks up, exhaustion obvious on his face. Jun doesn’t like when Aiba’s exhausted. Aiba shouldn’t be exhausted. He’s just a fucking admin.

“Sudoku,” Aiba says.

Jun narrows his eyes. “Since when do you do Sudoku?”

Aiba tries for a scowl, but it doesn’t work. God programmed Aiba Masaki to not have a mean bone in his body. “It’s good for your brain,” Aiba argues. “Helps you stay sharp.”

“You’re the same age as me, I’m sure your brain is fine,” Jun grumbles, taking in the state of himself. An IV drip, an always fashionable hospital gown. Flowers from some of the higher-ups in the company. “How long have I been here?”

Aiba puts his pencil and the puzzle down on Jun’s bedside table, pours him some water in a styrofoam cup. “Two days. This is the most coherent you’ve been.”

Jun takes the water, downs it in one big gulp. Now his mouth tastes like water and death instead of just death. “Fuck,” he says, and Aiba nods in agreement.

“Ninomiya-san found you on the floor of his lab. You must have passed out there during the night, but nobody was around. They didn’t find you until 8:00 in the morning. You were completely out of it, babbling, but the nice doctors here have pumped you full of vitamins.” Aiba makes a silly muscle man-style pose. “You’ll probably be discharged tomorrow, good as new.”

Aiba’s trying to cheer him up. It’s nice of him, but Jun knows he’s fucked.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “What was I babbling about? Did Nino say?”

Aiba shakes his head. “He hasn’t told me anything. Probably for the best, anyhow, since your bosses are breathing down my neck. The less I know, the better, right?”

Jun nods. The last thing Aiba needs to be dragged in on is the thing with Sho. He feels like his heart skips a beat, but no, the monitors hooked up to him don’t change their steady rhythm. He remembers sitting next to him in the simulation bar. He was so fucking tired…

“When they fire me…”

“ _If_ they fire you,” Aiba interrupts immediately, wiggling his finger at him. It makes Jun crack a bitter smile.

“When they fire me,” he continues, “I’ll have Nino find a place for you. You’ll be taken care of, Masaki.”

Aiba reddens. Jun never calls him by his first name. He probably hasn’t since Sho’s funeral. “I don’t think it will come to that. Your Ohno-sensei stopped by, too. He was talking to the doctor about the meds you’re on.”

Jun rolls his eyes. “I flush it all down the toilet.”

Aiba doesn’t seem surprised. “That was their conclusion, based on your bloodwork. There was no sign of the drugs in your system. Ohno-sensei didn’t really react though, he’s a weird guy.”

“Good psychiatrist, if you’re ever in the market for that sort of thing.”

“I’m not, but I’ll keep it in mind,” Aiba says.

“What’s my schedule for the day?”

Aiba laughs. “You are completely free today. And tomorrow. Since something obviously came up. I canceled the rest of the week, too.”

“I should collapse more often.”

Aiba doesn’t find that part funny. His expression is serious. “Ninomiya-san wants to see you, but only when you’re feeling better. I told him that talking is okay for you but working is not. You need to rest.”

Jun remembers Sho saying all the wrong things. Sho walking up to him, even when Jun tried to shut the program down. 

“I’ll rest,” he says, “I’ll rest.”

Because Aiba rightly doesn’t trust him, Jun discovers that Aiba has his employee ID. It’s not in its usual place inside his wallet. He grins when he realizes it. And Aiba probably has security people waiting for him to try and bust in to Nino’s lab. So he stews in the hospital for another day, feeling stronger. His nurses are well-trained not to take shit from him, even if he’s the CEO of a major subsidiary company and acts like it. The pills Ohno-sensei has prescribed in conjunction with Jun’s doctors at the hospital are administered promptly.

Aiba picks him up in the evening, not even asking if Jun wants to go home. Aiba’s packed him an overnight bag so he can stay in the lab with Nino. Aiba’s ID only gets him through two levels of Ninomiya’s security, and they part ways. Aiba hugs him, rubbing his back.

“If they fire you, I’m coming too.”

“An unemployed man doesn’t need an admin,” Jun mumbles, unable to remember the last time someone’s hugged him. Sho has, a few times, but that’s…that’s different…

“Whatever.”

Aiba leaves him, and Jun makes his way to the inner sanctum. It’s late, but Nino’s tech is usually still here. Instead Jun finds Nino alone in the lab, standing over the work table looking down at Sho.

When Jun approaches, Nino takes off his magnifying lenses. They rest against his threadbare t-shirt, suspended from the Metroid strap around his neck. “Welcome back,” Nino greets him.

“There’s something wrong with him,” Jun says, getting straight to the point. “Isn’t there?”

“Of the two of us, I was always the prankster,” Nino admits. “I did the dumbest shit to get a rise out of him.”

Jun stays quiet as they both look down. Sho’s body is completely still. Still in his suit, not a hair out of place.

“But this time he got me,” Nino says. “Come look at this.”

Nino leads Jun over to the computer. He recognizes the readouts, all the coding that makes Sho…Sho. Mostly.

“I’ve been over this a million times. Or at least I thought I had. But that bastard was awfully clever. He hid it in plain sight. Well, plain for my eyes, but I didn’t look hard enough.”

Nino goes through the code, and he eventually gets to Sho’s narrative areas. The Friendlies and the Partners tread the paths they’ve been given. But the sheer amount of data Sho dumped on the hard drive, based on all the audio recordings he’d done over time and all the narrative pathways he created, meant that Jun and Nino couldn’t have possibly gone through them all. Since it was Sho who created himself, Jun and Nino hadn’t had the heart to erase any of it. They just updated and tweaked as they needed.

Sho had recorded himself making all sorts of sounds, saying all sorts of things with a Kansai-ben spin as an alternate “Sho Voice.” Sho had recorded lines of dialogue from his favorite movies and TV shows. He’d written dozens and dozens of narrative paths, and yet Jun’s had him on only one path out of many all this time. Sho predicted correctly that they’d never bother to read all the stupid shit he saved on the hard drive. 

So that’s where he’d hidden the extra code. The extra code Nino had never known to look for, the extra code Jun wouldn’t have known was there even if he was staring right at it. 

“In a word,” Nino says, completely in awe, “it’s adaptation. Sho figured out workable adaptation, and of course, like the self-important prick that he was, he tested it on himself first.”

“Adaptation?”

Nino points to the still form on the table. “He’s learning. He’s been learning since we flipped the switch.”

Jun’s mouth drops open. He can’t find words. Nino keeps talking. The Friendlies don’t adapt. The Friendlies only follow the breadcrumbs of their programming. A cue leads to one branch of responses which lead to the next and the next. The Partners do this on a grander scale. None of them learn. None of them get that much “smarter,” really. There’s limits built in on purpose, especially given how most owners treat the Partners. 

The last thing they need is a soul.

They never really set “limits” on Sho because Jun only set him up for one simple narrative. The bar and Jun’s apartment. The last hours before Sho died in the crash.

“How is he learning? Can we tell?”

“When I found you, you were lying on the bar floor,” Nino says quietly. “And Sho-san was turned off. He was just sitting on the stool with a glass of alcohol. You were out of it, but you kept saying that what Sho-san was saying was wrong. That he was saying things he never said, which I presume means that he was saying things we haven’t programmed him to.”

“He didn’t shut off when I halted the program.”

Nino’s face goes pale. “Then he’s learning very fast.”

Jun isn’t surprised. Sho was smart, and he always knew it.

“I can delete the code and do a full wipe,” Nino says. 

“No,” Jun answers instantly.

“As I thought.”

“I’m going to get a call any day now. They’re going to fire me. They won’t even bother with that formal meeting. And they’ll take a shit on everything we did, take our names off the door and slap theirs up in its place.”

“Jun, we can prove that we’ve got adaptation. They won’t let you go.”

“And give it to them to exploit?” he asks. “So that the Friendlies understand what people say to them if their response doesn’t quite answer their question? So that every Partner we send out will remember the abuse he or she endures? Because that’s all it will become. That’s all this whole fucking company has become. That’s all Sho’s dream has become.”

Nino’s arm comes around him. Suddenly people want to hug him today.

“In the end,” Nino says, “it’s your project.”

Jun’s project, funded with corporate money, created from Sho’s rather high opinion of himself, crafted by Nino’s expertise. All Jun does is relive that night. All Jun does is fuck Sho and watch him leave. What part of this project can he really even claim is his own?

“Logically, I shouldn’t let you see him alone,” Nino tells him. “We can’t predict him anymore.”

Jun nods. “Yeah, I know that.”

“But what part of this has ever been logical?”

Nino lets him go, turns off his desk lamp. “I’m going to perform a surprise inspection of the Friendlies team, see how they’re progressing on the order. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

When Nino’s gone, it’s just him and Sho in the lab. He could activate Sho right here, question him, argue with him. But it doesn’t feel right, doing it here. Not when Sho’s in that suit. Not when Sho’s in the lucky tie. The Sho who worked in this lab always wore button-downs and jeans under his white coat. Where Jun’s had the bar built, his apartment built…that was Sho’s work area. That was where Jun saw the first Friendly wake up, the first Partner wake up. It’s not right, doing it here.

Instead Jun moves to the table, unlocks the wheels, pushes it to the bar. He lifts Sho off of it, settles him in a booth, and pushes the work table back into Nino’s work area. Sho knows to go sit at the bar. The bartender Friendly is seated, frozen, in the stock room. Jun returns and activates him. On cue with the bartender coming around, the rain starts up, water crashing down in the corridor from the sprinklers Nino’s tech rigged up. The lights dim, and he has to change clothes. He enters the corridor, water falling on his umbrella as the sound of a taxi door slamming shut echoes in the distance.

There’s a clap of thunder, and he pushes open the door to the bar.


	3. Chapter 3

“You started without me.”

Sho holds up two fingers. “I’m not that far ahead. I know you’ll catch up.”

For the first time, Jun hears what Sho is saying. Fuck him. All this time… _fuck him_.

“It took me a while,” Jun says, not bothering to cue the bartender to pour him a drink this time. “It took me a while, Sho-san, but I’ve finally caught up.”

Sho’s thumb moves, running along the rim of the glass. His smile is everything Jun remembers and nothing Jun’s programmed. “I don’t remember saying that.”

Jun leans an elbow against the bar, resting his chin against his palm. All he can do is stare. The eyes are the giveaway. The eyes he worked so hard to get right, but all this time, he’s gotten them so wrong.

“Because you said it the night you died. You’d already created the hard drive. You’d already created your artificial self, had it locked down and shut away. You only say it because I programmed you to say it.”

“And yet, it’s kind of perfect, isn’t it?” Sho teases, offering Jun a thumbs up. “I’m a genius.”

“Of course you’d program yourself to say something that fucking stupid.”

Sho’s smile grows, and Jun finally has to look away. He sits up straight, takes in all the colorful liquor bottles behind the bar. All the tiny, perfect details Jun insisted on. Not a bottle out of place, not too many or too few cocktail napkins. He doesn’t want to know how much it inconveniences Nino to keep replacing the lemons and limes the bartender has in the unlikely chance that Jun and Sho drink something besides Sho’s too expensive Scotch.

“You’re not him,” Jun mutters.

“I’m pretty close.”

“You’re not _him_ ,” he says more emphatically, thumping his fist on the countertop.

“Can I pour you a drink, sir?” the Friendly bartender asks. It’s a programmed reaction to an impatient customer. Not an action he’s had to perform in a while, but he reacts with perfect timing.

“No, thank you.”

The bartender’s locked out of a ton of possible narrative pathways with Jun’s answer. Sho could ask for another drink, but instead the bartender follows the most reasonable pathway. Inventory in the back room. He has bottles to count. The bartender leaves them alone as the rain continues to fall. There are drains out in the corridor that collect the water, cycle it back through the sprinklers, again and again. It can go on indefinitely so long as there’s power in the Sakuramoto building.

Sho has a sip of his drink, setting it down with a bit of force. “Should we stay down here and talk or go up to your place?”

Jun turns a little on the stool, taking in the sight of him again, as though it’s the first time. “Are you bored with the itinerary, Sho-san?”

Sho turns as well. He mirrors Jun’s posture exactly. Toying with him. “We’ve done this 472 times.”

Jun swallows. He was never counting. It chills him, knowing that the Sho he’s been with all this time remembers. He remembers it all.

“Four. Hundred. Seventy. Two,” Sho repeats, eyes desperately seeking answers that Jun doesn’t have. Logical ones, anyway. “What are we doing? Why are we doing this?”

He’s on the brink of tears. “I thought maybe at some point you’d stay.”

“Stay?”

“You always leave. You always walk out that door, Sho-san.”

“You’ve stopped us early 177 times,” Sho says without missing a beat. “How do you know I wasn’t going to stay on those occasions?”

Jun just shrugs, the tears spilling from his eyes freely, shamefully. “Sometimes I…sometimes I can’t make it to the end. Sometimes I just can’t watch you open the door and walk away from me for the last time.”

Sho reaches out, takes Jun’s hand in his own, squeezes. It feels right, Sho’s touch, Sho’s warmth, but it’s not right. It’s not him. “If it hasn’t changed after 472 tries, why do you keep doing it? Why do you keep doing this to yourself?”

“Because it’s the only night I ever told you that I loved you.”

_If I didn’t like complicated, I’d have never fallen in love with you._

Sho shakes his head. “No, it’s not.”

Jun squeezes Sho’s hand. “It’s the only time I said it.”

“You said it lots of times, Jun.” Sho uses his free hand, tapping his temple with his fingers. “I’m a genius. Good memory.”

“An artificial one.”

“You confessed to me in high school,” Sho reminds him.

“And then you asked me if my feelings were really love or if they were the ‘like’ kind of feelings, and I didn’t know what to say. I…I told you…”

“…you told me ‘it’s not like that,’ and it really pissed me off,” Sho tells him, grinning.

Jun can’t stop crying. Jun didn’t program that. Which means that Sho did. Sho put that memory in the hard drive. Sho apparently put more of himself, more of _them_ , into that hard drive than Jun can even imagine. Jun doesn’t know if he likes that or not. People’s memories are imperfect. It’s why he needed Nino to go to the bar, take photographs. 

Because Jun remembers sitting here, talking to Sho, but there’s no way he’d have remembered the arrangement of the bottles. He only has some of the little, odd things. Sho’s Scotch, the tie with the Windsor knot. Sho lifting his umbrella from the genkan floor before opening the door and leaving him forever. It doesn’t really matter where they were standing when Jun told Sho he loved him. It doesn’t really matter where or how they had sex. It only matters that it happened.

“Jun,” Sho says, finally letting him go, “I never knew that was what you wanted. I…I don’t know how to stay.”

“Because I’ve programmed it that way,” Jun explains. “It’s the narrative. You’ve got your car parked down the street, so obviously you wouldn’t want to get charged extra for leaving it overnight. That’s one cue for you to leave. And then there’s your parents. They’re coming over for breakfast in the morning, and you’ve got to get home and clean your messy shithole apartment.”

Sho holds up a hand in protest. “It’s not a shithole.”

Jun chuckles, unable to help himself. “You never put your clothes away. I think the piles of laundry probably became sentient and would have murdered you soon enough.”

“So if you’ve programmed all these logical cues for me to leave, then why are you hoping I’ll stay anyway? I can only follow the path you’ve put me on.” Sho leans in, and Jun shuts his eyes when Sho traces along his jaw, his fingers steady and gentle. “Jun, you could have done anything you wanted. You could just program me to fall asleep. You could program yourself some handcuffs and keep me locked to your bed. You can choose any ending you want.”

“Maybe I thought you’d fight it someday, fight the programming. Because I’ve worked so hard to get you right. To make you look right, sound right, smell right, feel right…” Jun opens his eyes, sees tear tracks on Sho’s face to match his own. “The Sho I knew, the Sho I love…”

Sho’s breath catches, and it’s the sound that makes Jun break.

“The Sho I loved would fight it, if he knew what was going to happen to him.”

Sho slides off the stool, taking Jun by the hand. They don’t actually need the bartender, they don’t need the umbrellas, their raincoats, any of their stuff. Sho pulls him up the stairs, and they don’t need Jun’s key to open the door either. They lose articles of clothing as they move in the direction of the bed, stopping to kiss every few feet. Because the sooner they have sex, the sooner Sho will leave. And this time they both know it.

They’ve done almost every conceivable thing in almost every conceivable place in Jun’s apartment. Jun’s apartment that Sho hates because it’s so open, so empty. Sho stops them just next to the bed.

“How did we do this? How did we do this that night?” 

Sakurai Sho the human would know. Sakurai Sho who’s not human only knows what they’ve done 472 times (well, minus 177) based on Jun’s cues, Jun’s needs at that moment. They’ve probably had sex in this fake apartment more times than they ever did in reality, over the years. 

The Sho standing with him right now must be so confused. Because sometimes Jun fucks Sho, and sometimes Sho fucks Jun. Sometimes they both come, sometimes it’s just one of them. Sometimes they use the cartoon condoms, and sometimes they don’t even make it to the nightstand to get them. Sometimes he’s pulled out, come on Sho’s stomach or his ass. Sometimes Sho begs Jun to come inside him. Sometimes they fuck in the shower. Sometimes in the kitchen. Once they fucked a second time in the genkan before Sho managed to leave.

The Sho standing with him right now knows what they’ve done on nights that aren’t this one. That Sho only knows whatever Sho the human thought was worth remembering, worth pulling out of his head and putting into code. Jun wonders which ones made the list. The first sloppy blowjob Jun gave him in the basement of Sho’s parents’ house. The first time they tried anal, and it sucked. The second time they tried anal, and it didn’t. The time they fucked in Sho’s car in that parking garage. The times they fucked at work. The last time they fucked before breaking things off, putting the company first.

The Sho standing with him now might have all of that or only some of that running through his head as points of reference, but no matter how many times they’ve been here, in Jun’s apartment, he doesn’t know what really happened.

“Nothing complicated,” Jun says. Sho’s holding his face between his hands. Sho’s looking at him with such sorrow in his eyes. Can he fight it? Does he want to? What does it mean if he fights it? What does it mean if he doesn’t?

Sho kisses him slowly, their foreheads pressed together. “I always wanted this,” Sho explains. “Even after we broke up.” 

“That’s how _he_ felt. That’s what _he_ wanted,” Jun reminds him. “You’re not him.”

“But I am,” Sho tells him desperately, kissing him again. And again. And again. “I am him. I’m…I’m me. It’s all I know, it’s all I’ve ever known. I don’t know how to explain it.”

“You’re just circuits. You’re just programming,” Jun murmurs, pulling him closer. He can feel Sho pressed all along his body, can feel his warmth, can feel the way his cock is so hard and wanting. None of it’s real. “You’re not him.”

“Tell me how it happened,” Sho begs him. “Show me. Please.”

Jun kisses his way down Sho’s body until he’s kneeling before him. He looks up, sees how Sho’s eyes burn with desire. “I started down here. But you didn’t come. I just missed giving you head. It wasn’t all that serious, I guess.”

He finds Sho’s hand, moves it to his head. Lets Sho tug on his hair a little. He sucks Sho’s cock, just like he did that night. Just like he did that night after he told Sho that he loved him. When he stops, when he tugs Sho onto the bed, pulls Sho on top of him, he realizes what he’s been getting so wrong all this time. He realizes why he’ll never be able to recreate that night perfectly.

Not because Sho isn’t Sho, not because Sho only programmed his life up to a certain point into a computer. But because Jun will never be the Jun who lived through that night ever again. The Jun who lived through that night didn’t know a truck would plow into Sho’s car within half an hour of them kissing each other goodbye. He only knew that moment, that feeling of being with Sho again, that innocent happiness. Thinking it was a beginning when it was actually an ending. It’s something he can’t recapture, no matter how many times they start this night over.

All this time he’s been trying to fix Sho when what he’s never been able to fix is himself.

He slides his hands up and down Sho’s back, slips his tongue into his mouth, feels the perfect weight of Sho on top of him. His skin, his body feels perfect, it feels right. His lips ache from so much kissing. He feels like maybe they’re fighting it a little. That night they never kissed this long…

“I want you,” Sho admits. “You can say it’s just programming, but that’s what I’m feeling. I’m feeling it so strongly, it hurts.”

“You definitely didn’t say that back then,” Jun teases gently, kissing the corner of Sho’s mouth.

“And I haven’t said it the other 472 times we’ve done this either, so maybe that’s a good sign,” Sho says. “What did we do? What did we do in your bed?”

Jun watches Sho watching him. “You touched me.” He brushes his fingers along Sho’s bicep. “Then you somehow got a cramp in your leg crawling to and from the nightstand to grab lube and a condom.”

“I definitely did not,” Sho protests.

“I’ve been preserving your dignity all this time, Sho-san,” he says with a smile. “You’re welcome.”

“Please don’t tell me that because I had a cramp we didn’t even sleep together. That I limped to the door, kissed you goodbye, and…”

“No,” Jun chuckles. “No, you recovered.”

“Do you want me to reenact that?”

“No, we can skip that part.”

Sho is extra careful anyway. He laughs at the condoms for a moment before getting serious. They kiss while Sho strokes inside him, scissoring his fingers gently, timing each kiss with a thrust or movement of his hand. Again, it’s going much slower than Jun has experienced or that Jun remembers. Sho’s touch is unrelenting, fingers deep inside him, crooking them just right. “Fuck,” Jun says, taking his cock in his hand. “Oh fuck.”

He’s lost in it, barely registering the uncomfortable, sticky sensation when his come starts to dry on his belly, on his fist. Sho moves, putting on a condom.

“You held my hand,” he murmurs, still high and not ready to come back down. “You held my hand when you fucked me.”

Sho doesn’t care about the mess Jun’s made, positioning himself and pushing inside. Sho moans, his cock filling Jun so perfectly. Like he did that night. Like he did years ago. Like always. Jun lifts an arm, the hand he didn’t use to jerk off. That’s the hand he lays flat against the mattress, palm up. That’s the hand Sho holds, their fingers intertwining, when he starts to move. The hand that squeezes tight, Sho murmuring “I love you” against Jun’s neck when he comes. 

Jun lies there with his heart racing, stunned, Sho collapsing against him, leaving sloppy half-assed kisses against his neck.

He hadn’t told him Sho had done just that. He hadn’t told him Sho had said “I love you” right before he finished that night. Jun hadn’t told him, and Sho couldn’t have programmed it.

Jun waits until Sho’s moved off of him, gone to and from the bathroom to get a damp cloth to clean them both. Then Sho comes back, flopping leisurely onto his stomach beside him while Jun stays on his back. They stare at each other for a while, but Sho gives in first.

“What? What is it?”

“You told me you loved me.”

“Because I _do_ love you, idiot.”

“No,” Jun complains, even as Sho’s blissfully ticklish fingers rain torture down the inside of his arm. “No, that’s not what I…”

“What?” Sho’s hair is always such a mess after they fuck. It sticks out every which way. It’s a mess and it’s perfect.

“You did the same thing. That night. Just like that. Exactly like that, actually.”

“You programmed it then, huh?”

Jun shakes his head. Somehow he’d forgotten that, but Sho doing it again, Sho saying it again triggered the memory. Sho stares at him for a while, absent-mindedly stroking his fingers along Jun’s skin.

“I obviously didn’t program it,” Sho mumbles. “What does it mean?”

“I don’t have a clue.”

“That’s unlike you, Jun,” Sho teases. But his smile quickly fades.

Jun moves onto his side, alarm replacing afterglow in an instant. “No. Don’t.”

Sho’s eyes fill with panic. “I…I have to go?”

“No, fight it.” Jun moves closer, presses his lips to Sho’s. “Tell me what’s happening. Tell me, I’ll help you.”

Sho can’t meet his eyes, his whole body going rigid. Jun remembers that terrifying night when Sho…broke. When he just kept repeating himself until Jun had to shut the program off entirely.

“It’s like…it’s like I have to piss.”

“What?!”

“You know, when you have to piss really badly, and all your thoughts become bladder bladder bladder, empty my bladder. And it just keeps getting stronger. That’s…that’s what I’ve got. But instead of having to use the bathroom, I have to leave. Like I don’t know how I’m still here in this bed when every instinct I have is telling me that…telling me that my car…my car is parked…”

Jun moves them until Sho’s on his side too. Jun clings to him pathetically, even as he tries not to laugh at the bizarre, very “Sho” explanation he offered.

“Fight it. Sho, you need to fight it.”

“I don’t…I don’t understand this. I’ve done this over and over again, and it didn’t feel wrong like this…it just…it just felt inevitable.”

“That’s the…”

“…the programming. Between you and Nino, I had a feeling it would be strong but…”

“I couldn’t change the ending myself,” Jun admits, feeling how Sho’s skin has gone a bit clammy. He has an arm around him, as though that’s enough to keep him there. “You said I could have done anything I wanted. Sho, I’ve done all of this, but I’ve always left the ending up to you. It was never my decision to make.”

Sho struggles a little in his arms. He’s crying. He doesn’t want to go either.

“Even if I stay,” Sho says, “even if I stay it doesn’t change a god damn thing. You keep telling me I’m not him, I’m not him. Even if I stay, you’ll stop the program and the next time I see you, we have to start all over. It’s all we ever do. I see you come in, and you look exhausted. You look miserable. You try to smile at me, and I have to smile back. I don’t get to ask if you’re okay, I don’t get to yell at you for not taking care of yourself. I don’t get to tell you that you should just stop this. That you should just let me go for good.”

Before he can respond, Sho’s touching his face.

“You say I’m not him. Maybe that’s true. But I’m everything he told me to be, with a few adjustments from you and Nino. That’s who I am, that’s what I know. I’m Sakurai Sho. And Sakurai Sho hates seeing you like this. Sakurai Sho doesn’t want this for you. He doesn’t want this hell for you. He loved you… _I_ love you.”

“What am I supposed to do without you?”

“How long has it been? I can count how many times we’ve met here, but that’s all I can do.”

“Two years…a little more than two years.”

Sho gasps a little before pulling away. Jun understands, the mattress creaking as Sho gets out of bed. He’s known all along that Sho would hate this. That Sho would want him to move on. 

He watches Sho get dressed like he’s watched him get dressed so many times before. Eventually Jun gets out of bed, the room still smelling like sweat and sex, like Sho. He follows him to the genkan.

Sho stops before he can pick up his umbrella from the floor. It’s still raining outside. No, it’s not. They both know it’s not. Usually they kiss here if Jun allows it to get to this point. Sho usually kisses him like it’s the first time, when everything was possible. In their work, in their lives together. He always smiles before he opens the door. Sho’s not smiling now.

“More than anything, I want to see you again,” Sho admits. “It’s selfish, but I’m being honest. At least as honest as the circuits in my head allow me to be. But I know that if I see you again, if I wake up and I’m sitting in that fucking bar waiting for you to come in from the rain, I’ll hate it. Because even if I spit out the words you want me to say, I’ll know that you’re hurting yourself. I’ll know that you’re suffering just to see me.”

Sho’s done a terrible job with the tie. Jun undoes it, slowly reties it for him. Sho allows him that at least.

“I could have Nino change the coding,” Jun says quietly. “You’re the one who programmed yourself to learn. To remember. I didn’t do that.”

“It would be like tonight never happened,” Sho warns him. “I’d be blissfully ignorant. I’d be just as empty-headed as a Friendly. Is that what you want for me?”

Jun doesn’t say anything, his fingers lingering on Sho’s lucky tie. It’s the original, the one he’d been wearing when he died. There’s a tiny blood stain on it that Jun knows is there. He wonders if Sho has ever been curious about it.

Sho’s hand covers his, holding them together against his heart. It’s a fucking marvel of engineering. It’s not real, but it beats. 

It _beats_.

“Jun, if you erase that part of me and you keep doing this, it’s going to kill you. It’s not worth it. Especially because…” Sho’s eyes aren’t the eyes Jun and Nino programmed. They’re _Sho’s_ eyes. “…especially because I’m not him.”

But he is, Jun realizes. He _is_.

It’s easy to deactivate a Friendly. It’s easy to deactivate a Partner. But he thinks about erasing everything Sho’s learned. Everything Sho has become. He can’t…he can’t do that. It would be like losing him a second time. 

He tugs on Sho’s tie, kisses him. Sho kisses him back. But soon enough Sho’s reaching for the door.

“What if…what if I find another way?” Jun blurts out.

Sho’s expression is curious.

“A way that doesn’t hurt me. And doesn’t hurt you.”

Sho raises an eyebrow. “Playing god?”

“Says the arrogant bastard who coded himself and stuck it on a hard drive, thinking Nino might actually want to receive something that stupid.” He grins. “I’ll figure something out.”

“And all this time I thought you were just the good-looking half,” Sho teases.

Jun loves him. Jun loves _him_.

Sho lifts his umbrella from the floor, smiling.

“Well,” Sho says, following the only narrative pathway left to him at this point. “Until then.”

—

Jun is fired on a Tuesday morning.

He thinks maybe he should be more upset about his life’s work being stolen away, but Nino’s still there. He’ll still be chief programmer. He won’t let the soulless corporate assholes ruin everything. And Nino’s found a place for Aiba as well. All the Sudoku has paid off, and Aiba will be in quality assurance, chatting up Partners and Friendlies. Probably more fulfilling than getting Jun’s coffee and canceling all his meetings anyway.

The following Tuesday Jun stops in to see Ohno-sensei. He doesn’t go into the office, doesn’t stretch out on the couch. Instead they sit together at a table on the roof of the professional building. There’s a tiny garden. There’s not much of a view, but Ohno-sensei seems to like it.

For the first time, Ohno asks him a question. 

“Are you happy?”

“I’m working toward it. I will be. I know I will be. Soon.”

Jun’s severance package is considerable. In the end, the overlords just pitied him, losing his long-time business partner the way he did. Jun gives half his stock to Nino and Aiba, cashes out the rest. He sells the apartment, the sparse expanse of it. He leaves Tokyo, buys a cozy old house in Nagano. Sho’s got family out here. For a computer nerd, he sure loved to get outdoors, go hiking, snowboarding, skiing. 

Nino could be charged with theft of intellectual property, and so he acts like a super spy when he and Aiba drive up to the Nagano house in a van one morning several months later, once Jun’s got everything settled. Nino and Aiba both hug him at the same time, and it’s kind of weird. But he likes it anyhow.

“Do you want to stay? So he has another familiar face?” Jun asks quietly.

Nino pats his back, rubbing gently. “No. We’ll come back. Once you’ve got a handle on things.”

“I can’t wait to meet him,” Aiba says. “Well, I mean, I’ve already met him but…you know what I’m trying to say, right?”

Jun laughs. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

He watches the van turn around in the driveway, Aiba driving and Nino half-hanging out the damn window waving like a kid.

“Idiots. Surrounded by them,” he mutters, waving back before turning to go into the house.

Jun’s turned most of the second floor into a lab. For check-ups, for diagnostics. But it’s not sterile. There’s warmth to the room. Jun’s decorated it with all the action figures and dumb clutter Sho used to keep in his work area. It’ll really be his workstation, not Jun’s. He’ll be able to program himself as he sees fit. It’s better that way.

It’s not going to be easy. It’s not going to be easy at all. Sho will grieve because even though he’ll be able to see his family, his old friends, he won’t be able to meet them. He’ll be close but never as close as he wants to be. There will be limits on the things he can do. He’ll be able to go outside, have a life. But he won’t have an identity card. He’ll probably have to disguise himself everywhere he goes. But deactivating him would have been the same as a death sentence. It’s fucked up, but he and Sho…they’ve been a little fucked up from the start.

Not fucked up, he knows Sho would say. Complicated. And if Jun didn’t like complicated, he’d have never fallen in love with him.

This time Jun’s not in a suit. He’s not coming in from the rain. He’s in jeans and an ugly t-shirt Sho got him for Christmas years and years ago. _My Attitude Isn’t Bad. It’s In Beta_. Jun hates this stupid shirt.

“That’s exactly why I bought it,” Sho had always teased him.

This time Sho’s not in a suit either. No lucky tie. Just some of Jun’s clothes. They’ll have plenty of time to shop soon enough, to let Sho pick out what he wants.

Jun has never been more nervous than he is when he sits down on the couch beside Sho. After today, Jun will never be the one deciding when Sho’s program is active or inactive. Sho gets to make those choices. Sho gets to decide what his narrative pathways are.

Jun takes in the sight of him, out of the lab. Out of the hell Jun created for them both. He’s been worried that this will become an altogether different kind of hell for Sho. He’s prepared for Sho to reject it all. But he’s praying for Sho to be a little more selfish than that. 

Sho’s eyes are closed, his hands folded in his lap. Peaceful, like he’s having an afternoon snooze. Jun leans over, presses a soft kiss to Sho’s temple, ruffles his hair a little. Just in case he’s not able to do it again.

He takes a breath and whispers the word to activate.

Slowly Sho’s eyes open. Jun doesn’t say a thing, letting Sho wake, letting him take it all in. He watches Sho’s hands move, fingers brushing along the unfamiliar sofa cushion, feeling the texture. He strokes the rougher fabric of his jeans, the softness of his t-shirt. He brings his hands up, stares down at the lines on his palms.

Finally, he looks over. And Sho smiles.

“You started without me,” Sho teases him.

Jun smiles, too. “I’m not that far ahead.” 

He reaches out, and Sho takes his hand. 

“I know you’ll catch up.”


End file.
